The Bindings of Fear
by ArkadyRose
Summary: When a case goes disastrously wrong, Holmes discovers he suffers Merinthophobia - the fear of being bound or tied up. His captors use this to torture him. Serious Holmes!whumpage.
1. Bound

"Ready?" murmured Holmes. Watson nodded.

"On three. One. Two-"

"Three!" said Holmes, and leapt out from their hiding place, heading straight for the largest man.

Rolling his eyes for his friend's impetuous nature, Watson rapidly followed him, swinging his cane hard to deflect the knife blow meant for Holmes' back before reversing the blow to strike hard at the ribs of the other man to his right. As that man doubled over clutching his ribs, Watson brought the cane hard up against his chin, sending him sprawling back on the floor, unconscious.

Watson shifted his attention back to the knifeman who had dropped the blade to his other hand and chose that moment to step in with an underhand thrust aimed up towards the doctor's ribs; Watson knocked the blade to one side with the back of his hand then brought the cane whistling down against the side of his head. He, too, crumpled to the floor unconscious.

Watson glanced around, satisfying himself that both his opponents and Holmes' adversary were down and out for the count then looked around for Holmes. There was no sign of him; Watson presumed he'd moved further into the warehouse.

Peelers began streaming in at that point, followed by Lestrade pointing and shouting orders. He halted by Watson. "Couldn't wait I suppose?" he remarked, looking down pointedly at the three unconscious men.

Watson shrugged. "You know Holmes," he replied.

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Well, I guess we'd best start clearing up this mess and see how many Mr Holmes has left for us, shall we?" Shaking his head, he followed Watson into the warehouse proper.

The policemen were cleaning up the last of the gang from what Watson could see. There was no sign of Holmes, but that didn't mean anything; Holmes rarely waited but could be trusted to be in the thick of things. That wouldn't be with the mop-up crew. Watson shook his head, skirted round a pair of bobbies handcuffing a struggling man, and headed towards the back of the warehouse.

Half an hour later, Watson conceded defeat. He limped back round to the front of the warehouse. Constable Clark met him there.

"No sign, sir," he said, shaking his head. Lestrade strode up with a worried look on his face.

"No-one's seen him since it all kicked off, doctor," he said, his expression dark. "I suspect Mr Holmes has gotten himself in over his head."

Watson's mouth twisted as though he had tasted something bitter and unpleasant and wanted to swear roundly but would not permit himself. He turned and limped back into the warehouse.

Holmes had assumed that Watson was only a heartbeat behind him as he dropped his opponent with a firm jab with one baton to the solar plexus followed by an elbow jab to the jaw.

Not that lack of back-up would necessarily have stopped him, per se; it may have caused him to re-evaluate his tactics however.

As he realised the four men he'd been pursuing had led him into what seemed to be a dead end fenced around with high packing crates, he reflected that perhaps waiting for Watson might have been prudent. A glance back over his shoulder confirmed that his exit had been cut off by two more men. Turning back to face his adversaries, he wryly smiled – the hunter suddenly become the prey.

"Gentlemen, feel free to surrender," he quipped, twirling his twin batons. The men glanced at each other, then another man stepped out from behind the others, coils of rope in his hands.

The blood drained from Holmes' face and a dangerous stillness settled over him. "I think not," he said quietly.

"Get 'im, boys," said the one bearing the ropes.

They rushed him all at once – two from behind, four in front. He moved to meet the first two, one baton blocking a haymaker punch whilst the other baton slipped past the other man's guard to bloody his nose. _Turn, spin, kick out_ to drop one of the men behind him whilst he swung both batons out to his sides, connecting with heads; _leap forwards headbutt_ and the man in front of him reeled backwards, stunned, as Holmes executed a spinning back-kick to the chest of the first man. Then _bring both batons forward_ to-

He reeled as twin fists delivered a stunning punch to the back of his head, stunning him. He staggered and dropped to one knee, twisting to block the follow-up blow with the baton in his right hand even as the man to his left kicked the other baton from his hand. He pushed himself up to his feet to follow up the block with a knee-jab to the man's gut but staggered sideways as a billy-club smashed into the side of his head.

A stick came whistling down onto his right wrist and his hand went numb as the baton dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers; he lurched back, barely ducking a jabbed punch aimed at his face as he clutched his injured arm to his chest.

Hands grabbed him from behind; the next punch connected squarely with his jaw, snapping his head back painfully. For a moment his vision greyed; he would have fallen if not for the hands holding him.

"Bring him back here," ordered the man with the ropes.

"No," muttered Holmes hoarsely, then louder, "No!" as he was dragged forward, feet stumbling as he tried to resist. There were more hands upon him now; he began to struggle wildly as the rope-man readied the coils. Holmes' eyes widened in sudden terror as one of his captors grabbed his wrists from behind, twisting them up behind his back and the rope-man advanced. "No!" he screamed, and went into a wild frenzy, bucking and twisting, kicking out at the men holding him – anything to get away from those ropes and what they represented.

"Blimey, 'e's a wild 'un and no mistake," exclaimed one of the men, then swore as one of Holmes' kicks managed to land home.

"Peelers are 'ere!" yelled one of the others.

The rope-man cursed. "We don't have time for this," he swore. "Take him down, fast. Time for fun later. We'll bring him with us."

Abandoning attempts to restrain Holmes, they began to rain down blows upon his head and body; fists, feet, sticks, all wielding pain as Holmes was struck again and again until finally he slumped to the ground. The last thing he saw as everything went dim was the rope-man approaching him with a sap in his hand. Then the blow connected with his skull just behind his ear, and everything went black.

"He's coming round."

The voice reverberated painfully within his skull; he winced. His head felt like it was splitting in two. Something wet, thick and sticky was drying on the left side of his face, making the skin itch; there was a steady throbbing pain behind his left ear. His right wrist ached abysmally; a hot, pulsing pain that made him nauseous. Or perhaps that was the concussion.

A foot toed his ribs and he groaned, rolling over onto his side away from it. The nudge was followed by a kick to his kidneys and he cried out before biting his lip.

"That's enough. We've better fun than that, lads."

Footsteps coming closer. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking blood out of his left eye as he regarded warily the feet that came to a stop a couple of feet away from his face. Something dropped with a loud clinking sound on the ground between Holmes and the feet; he narrowed his eyes and then suddenly he realised what it was: a set of manacles. Eyes widening, he pushed himself up and scrabbled backwards until his back was against a wall. He crouched there, eyes wide, like a cornered wild animal as he cradled his wrist to his chest. He hadn't dared spare it more than a glance, but he was fairly sure it was broken; for now however, he had more pressing, urgent matters to consider.

Such as staying out of those manacles that had been picked up and were now being dangled teasingly by his tormentor.

"I do believe he's frightened, lads!" remarked the man, taking a step towards Holmes who pressed his back against the wall as if by will alone he could force himself through it. "Look at 'im – the great Sherlock Holmes. Afraid of being tied up."

Holmes tried to shake his head, to deny it, but could only shiver instead. He couldn't understand his own reaction himself; it seemed entirely illogical and unreasoning. Yet there it was; he somehow _knew_ on an instinctive level that he would rather die than let himself be tied up or manacled. "L-leave me alone," he growled, voice hoarse with fear.

The man laughed. "I think not. The boys and me, we're going to have a bit of fun, Mr High-and-Mighty Sherlock Holmes. Not so high and mighty now, are you?" He snapped his fingers, and two men to his left grinned in anticipation as they advanced towards Holmes.

He shoved himself up to his feet and looked around for a way out, but he was trapped. The room was small, with only the one door – and two men lounging around between him and it. The one giving orders appeared to be the leader; he stood beside a small fire where a pathetic pile of coals smouldered; that plus a couple of gas lamps were the only sources of light in the room beside a candle on a small wooden table. A plain wooden chair in the middle of the room was the only other item of furniture.

He struggled as the two men grappled with him, but with a broken wrist he was hampered in a way they were not. Even so, he thrashed and bucked as they tried to restrain him, until the larger of the two men succeeded in grasping his injured wrist and twisting it up behind his back. The resulting white-hot blaze of pain nearly caused him to faint; his knees buckled and he gagged, on the verge of vomiting.

The two thugs hoisted him up by the biceps and dragged him over to the chair. He was almost grateful to sit down; the room was spinning alarmingly and his head was throbbing almost in time with the agony of his wrist. He forced himself to sit upright and stare back at his captors defiantly.

"Strip his shirt off."

Again he struggled; he was outnumbered and they could easily overpower him, but that didn't mean he was going to make things easy for them. Still, they ripped away the torn shirt, cuffing him roughly with their hands as he wrestled them for possession of it, cursing him roundly as they did until finally he sat slumped in the chair, shirtless, bruised and bloodied, his eyes dazed yet still holding only contempt for his captors in their dark depths.

That look changed again to one of sheer terror as the manacles were dangled before him again. He shoved back hard against the chair and tried to rise, but instantly there were three men holding him down in the chair – one in front with his hands on Holmes' shoulders, two forcing his hands behind his back as the leader strolled slowly behind him and bent down, the manacles clinking.

Holmes went berserk at the first cold kiss of iron touching his wrist. He arched his back with a scream of unreasoning terror, his body spasming as he kicked out, thrashing wildly. He flexed against the arms restraining him; he snarled and bit like a desperate wild thing; he twisted and lunged, bucking against their grip, unheeding of the damage they inflicted in turn until one of the men caught hold of his injured wrist and viciously twisted it, hard, with an audible crack.

He screamed, high and shrill, then retched as his body went limp. The second manacle clicked shut about his mangled flesh, eliciting only a tremor as the half-conscious detective slumped in the chair. He was only capable of a faint moan as they then bound him further to the chair with ropes about his chest and waist before tying his ankles to the chair legs.

The leader loomed over him as he sat helpless in his bonds. He cupped Holmes' chin in one hand and forced him to look up.

"Not so cocksure now, are we, Mr Holmes?" he sneered. The detective seemed to be unaware of him however, mumbling and whimpering to himself, half delirious with pain and fear.

"No, no, please...please no..."

"We've broken him, Daws," chuckled one of the men. Daws grinned and patted Holmes' cheek.

"Reckon we might've, at that," he mused. He crouched down slightly until he was on a level with Holmes.

Holmes seemed not to see him; his eyes were glazed over and unfocused as he continued murmuring his litany of pleas, his face white, head tilted a little to one side.

"Oi. Holmes. I'm talking to you," Daws said a little louder, the pat becoming a slap. There was no response from the murmuring man.

"Break his fingers," suggested one of the others.

"_You_ break his friggin' fingers!"

"Alright, I will then," said the other, bending down behind Holmes. There was a sickening snap, followed by another; Holmes shuddered and keened faintly then gagged and vomited over himself before his head lolled to one side as he returned to whispering his faint litany again.

Disgusted, Daws turned away. "Somebody gag him; he'll drive us bleedin' nuts if we have to listen to that all night," he said contemptuously.

Presently the sound ceased.

They came upon the gang by surprise shortly before dawn.

They had found Holmes' batons abandoned in a dead-end of crates that were splashed with blood, along with his coat and cravat. A second careful search around the outside of the warehouse had revealed the marks of a group of men dragging something away from the warehouse towards a small side road that lead down towards the docks.

Lestrade had called in extra forces from the Yard to block off all possible exits from the dock whilst two police steam launches manoeuvred into position in case of a water-born escape.

Then they had combed the dockside buildings in groups, hauling out everyone they found for questioning as they searched for the missing detective. They had dragged them all off into a large warehouse by the edge of the docks which had been searched first and confirmed empty, and each building was hit from a different direction so none inside knew before the door was thrown violently open by the forces of the law.

Had he been less concerned and preoccupied with the whereabouts of Holmes and the state they might find him in, Watson might have been humbled by the loyalty displayed towards Holmes in the police response to his abduction; certainly he would have felt a surge of guilt for the three families and the innocent dock workers rousted out of their homes and work places at such an early hour.

As it was, he was all but obsessed with finding Holmes; he was oblivious even to the pain of his own leg as he limped from building to building with Lestrade and Hopkins, his hopes raised along with his fears at each door they opened and as quickly dashed again when the search of the building proved fruitless.

The gang had recognised the approach of the police at the last moment and made a run for the water; Lestrade and Hopkins had sprung after them in an instant along with a troop of ten officers, but Clark and Watson only had eyes for the one who turned back at the last moment – a wickedly curved knife gleaming in his hand.

Watson had never sprinted so fast in his life. Limp or no, he flew along the wooden walkway, his long legs eating up the distance between himself and the man who was disappearing through the door of a small hut that had been overlooked in the search.

But fast as Watson was, Clark was faster. He took aim with his revolver past the sprinting doctor and carefully, precisely squeezed the trigger. Watson overtook the man as he crumpled to the ground clutching his leg. He paid him no mind as he flung open the door.

He stumbled into the room and came to a halt, breathing hard as he bent over, clutching his leg. He glanced up -

And froze.

Holmes sat in a chair facing the door, bound and gagged. His hands were manacled behind his back, ropes criss-crossing his bare torso. Ropes bound his slender bare ankles to the legs of the chair. His head lolled to one side, caked with blood down the left side, but his eyes were open. His face was curiously blank, his eyes unseeing.

As Watson advanced slowly towards his friend, his eyes remained devoid of even the slightest flicker of recognition.

He sank awkwardly to his knees before Holmes. Close up, he could see – and smell – the dried traces of vomit over the man's chest and pooled in his lap. It had dried into a yellowish crust over the ropes and his chest which was mottled black and purple with bruises. Watson traced a hand ever-so-lightly over the ribs; Holmes did not so much as flinch. Watson stared up into Holmes' blank face.

"Oh dear God. What did they do to you?" he whispered. He rose to his feet and gently reached around the bruised and battered head to loosen the gag. As it pulled away from cracked and bloodied lips, he became aware of a faint sussuration; leaning closer, he could hear it resolve into a faintly breathed murmuring, flat and devoid of intonation like a mantra.

"No. No. Please... no. No. Please... no. No..."

Watson felt bile rise into his throat, hot, sour and nauseating. He turned away, a gloved hand over his mouth whilst he fought to control his stomach. He breathed hard for a few minutes, then swallowed, blinking slowly.

This would not do. He had to get Holmes out of here. Taking a deep breath, he circled Holmes and dropped to his knees behind the chair.

When he saw what had been done to Holmes' right hand, he turned and vomited.

He was dimly aware of someone entering the room, followed by others; he heard Clark gasp and then gag, much as he had done, over the soft noise of Holmes' monotonous litany of meaningless protest. He heard Lestrade turn and berate a couple of his officers for being pussies before yelling for a stretcher and the mariah. But Watson shook his head and fought off further waves of nausea; he had to get Holmes out of those manacles and bonds.

As he set to work untying the catatonic detective, he became aware of other hands assisting him. He was aware of Clark's shocked white face as the constable unlocked the manacles, treating that broken, mutilated hand with such delicate care that Watson felt like weeping himself. Lestrade was at his other side, sawing at the ropes around Holmes' ankles with his pocket-knife, keeping up a stream of curses under his breath that sang in curious harmony with Holmes' own faintly breathed song of denial.

Then Clark gently lifted Holmes up in his arms, Watson cradling the wounded hand carefully then laying it upon the limp man's lap. A police medic stepped in, and he and Watson conferred briefly before the medic poured a measure of chloroform into Watson's own handkerchief and he carefully placed it over Holmes' mouth and nose. After a few moments, Holmes' lips ceased murmuring against Watson's hand beneath the cloth, and those empty, hollow eyes drifted closed.


	2. Release

They swathed him in blankets, laid him upon the stretcher, and bore him gently to the mariah where Watson took advantage of Holmes' anaesthetised state and the assistance of the police medic to carefully set Holmes' wrist and fingers. Then he splinted the fingers and wrist, immobilising them for the journey to the hospital.

Holmes did not stir during the journey, though Watson could tell by his quickening breath and rapid, shallow pulse that he had come round from the chloroform. He debated with himself whether to administer morphine, uncertain if it would help or hinder his mental state; in the end he settled for simply holding Holmes' good hand comfortingly. He was uncertain if Holmes was even aware of his presence, and questioned whether he was doing it for Holmes' comfort or his own.

Such disquieting thoughts accompanied him the entire journey, and were not dispelled when Holmes was carried into the emergency ward. There, the full extent of Holmes' injuries was made apparent; two of his ribs were broken in addition to the fingers and wrist, as well as extensive bruising to his torso and back. He was suffering badly from concussion due to a fracture of the skull just behind his left ear.

Once the blood and vomit had been cleaned from his face and body he did not look quite so appallingly ghastly. The fingers were carefully splinted, the wrist put in a cast; his head was swathed in soft bandages and he was then put to rest in a side room.

Not once had he opened his eyes during all this time, though Watson was sure he was awake. Once the nurse had quietly closed the door behind her and they were alone, Watson sank down into the hard-backed chair beside the bed and hitched it closer to Holmes' side. He reached out and took Holmes' limp left hand between both of his own, and gently called Holmes' name.

Holmes did not stir, his eyelashes still over the dark circles under his eyes. His breathing quickened a little; the only outward sign of life. Watson tried again.

"Holmes. You're safe now. Please... open your eyes. It's me, John."

The eyelashes fluttered a little, and Holmes turned his face towards the sound of Watson's voice. Heartened, Watson leaned closer.

"That's it... open your eyes... I'm here, you're safe," he repeated.

Holmes opened his eyes slightly, as though afraid of what he might see. His eyes glittered darkly behind the curtains of his eyelashes, darting here and there as they searched the room for any sign of threat or danger.

"Holmes?"

"John?" The voice was hushed and hoarse, as though uttered from a throat that had screamed out all capacity for normal speech. "John, is it... really you?" The eyes regarded him with a kind of hopeless dread, as though not trusting what they saw to be true.

"It's me," smiled Watson gently.

"I thought you were part of the nightmare," breathed Holmes. "I didn't dare hope..."

"I'm real," Watson assured him, squeezing his hand slightly in reassurance. Holmes closed his eyes with a faint sigh of relief that was almost a sob.

"Get me out of here, John," he whispered. Watson rose to his feet and moved closer to the bed, not letting go of Holmes' hand which now gripped his almost painfully hard.

"Holmes, you've been badly hurt; I don't think-"

"Damn what you don't think!" cried Holmes, struggling to sit up. "I have to- I, I've got to get out of here, you don't understand!" Letting go of Watson's hand, he grasped instead at the front of his waistcoat. "Get me out of here, it's too small... walls closing in..." He slumped back against the pillows, gasping as his eyes fluttered closed. "I can't breathe," he panted.

"Holmes, you're panicking. You have to calm down," said Watson gently, reaching again for his friend's hand. "Just calm down and let yourself breathe. Deep breaths – that's it; in... out... in... out..."

"I can't, I can't breath," murmured Holmes breathlessly, his chest heaving. He winced then coughed. "I'm dying..."

"No, you're not; Holmes, you're having a panic attack. You need to calm yourself." Watson sat himself up on the bed, his back against the headboard, and pulled Holmes into his arms, resting the slender man's back against his broad chest. He could feel Holmes' heart beating fast, racing like that of some terrified animal. He gently stroked Holmes' hair as he gently urged him to breathe... just breathe...

Slowly Holmes began to calm, soothed by the touch of Watson's hand as his breathing slowed to match that of the doctor, his heartbeat gradually returning to normal. Finally he slumped against Watson, exhausted and spent.

"Watson... you have to get me out of here. Please. Take me home."

Watson shook his head. "Holmes, I don't..."

His voice tailed off as Holmes turned awkwardly so he could look at him properly. The dark eyes were shadowed with fear. "John. Please take me home."

Watson lifted the pale white uninjured hand to his lips and kissed the delicate fingers. "All right, Holmes. All right."

It was with misgivings that Watson helped Holmes to slowly, painfully dress himself in the bloodstained shirt and the coat which had been abandoned by Holmes' abductors at the warehouse; Watson was thankful that one of the police officers had thought to retrieve it and hand it to him upon their arrival at the hospital. Holmes was barefoot – they'd found no trace of his shoes, either at the warehouse or at the docks – but the journey home by hansom would be brief. Watson carefully rearranged the sling upon Holmes' arm, then helped him on with the coat, buttoning it just beneath the sling to help provide a little more support for the arm. Then he slung Holmes' good arm over his shoulder and slipped his own hand around the slender man's waist, taking his cane in his other arm.

"Easy does it, old boy," he said quietly as Holmes swayed and leaned on him. "I've got you." Holmes said nothing, concentrating on staying upright and putting one foot in front of the other.

They were confronted before they got far by an irate matron who summoned a doctor and tried to argue them out of leaving. Watson argued heatedly with the doctor, each casting aspersions on the other's professional qualifications as their voices grew louder, the matron adding in her tuppenceworth any time either of them drew breath, whilst Holmes stared at the floor; Watson was aware of Holmes' breathing quickening and growing ragged beside him. After a while, he raised his head, staring fixedly ahead of them.

"I'm going home," he rasped suddenly, and pushed himself away from Watson, walking determinedly past the doctor and nurse who gaped at him. The nurse reached to grasp at his arm; he turned a look of such fury and malevolence upon her that she blanched and stepped back.

"Watson."

Watson glared at the doctor then stepped up to his friend's side, once more supporting him as they made their slow but steady way towards the exit. There Watson sat Holmes down upon a bench whilst he hailed a hansom; when he returned, the cab following him to the curb, Holmes had slumped where he sat, hunched over upon himself, miserable and shivering. As Watson helped him up into the cab, he could hear Holmes murmuring to himself again. He bit his lip, and slid himself in beside Holmes, closing the door and drawing Holmes in close beside him for warmth. Holmes was stiff at first, but then slowly relaxed and leaned in against him, closing his eyes as he rested his head upon Watson's shoulder. He grew silent, the murmuring dying away, to be replaced by a faint hiss of pain each time the movement of the hansom over some pothole or defect in the road jolted his broken wrist.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Holmes was all but asleep, and Watson was hard put to rouse him. Holmes opened his eyes drowsily and glanced around, for a moment or two disorientated and uncertain where they were. It was not until Watson had gently lifted him down and he stood upon the cold pavement outside their own front door that he recognised they were home, and a look of profound thankfulness soften his gaunt pale features.

They climbed the stairs to their rooms slowly, Holmes clutching the bannister hard as Watson followed behind him in case he slipped. Then he slipped his hand round Holmes' waist once more and gently guided him into the sitting room. Holmes shuffled forwards, awkwardly trying to undo his coat buttons as he made his way towards the couch. Watson closed the door, setting his cane in the stand then stripping off his gloves as he followed Holmes into the room.

"Here, let me do that for you, old boy," offered Watson. Holmes turned with a look of resignation in his eyes and stood patiently whilst Watson undid the buttons for him, then he shrugged the garment off onto the floor and sank down onto the couch. He leaned back against the cushions, worn out even by that brief exertion.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" asked Watson gently.

"Bring me my morocco case," replied Holmes listlessly, gesturing at the mantelpiece. Watson glanced at it and frowned, looking back at Holmes with disapproval. Holmes rolled his eyes in exhausted exasperation. "For the _pain_, Watson, damn it! Or must I endure that as well as your disapproval for my habits?"

Watson instantly looked contrite. "Forgive me, Holmes. I wasn't- well- never mind," he finished lamely, as he lifted the case down from it's place. Holmes took it upon his knee, opening it and taking out a vial of morphine. Watson gently took the hypodermic from Holmes' fingers and drew up the correct dose, and Holmes held out his left arm and lay back as Watson carefully administered the injection.

"You must think me a weak man, John," said Holmes softly as Watson returned the morocco case to its accustomed place. Watson looked down at him as he rested his head upon his hand.

"No, Holmes. Never that," he said gently. "You are many things, Holmes, but weak is not one of them."

Holmes let his head sink down onto the arm of the couch. "I am so tired, John," he said dully.

Watson returned to his side and crouched down, ignoring the fiery pain from his old scar as he did so.

"We should get you into bed," he said quietly. Holmes shook his head, closing his eyes. Watson sighed and lifted a hand as though to stroke the wild black hair but paused, letting his hand hover there for a moment before letting it fall back to his side. Holmes opened one eye and regarded him curiously.

"You will not let me be until I am safely tucked up, is that it, Mother Hen?" he smiled.

"Something like that," agreed Watson.

Holmes sighed. "Very well," he acceded. He levered himself up, then sank back woozily. "I don't think..."

Stifling the urge to smile, Watson gently scooped up the skinny detective and carried him with elaborate care into his bedroom, where he set him down on the edge of the bed and helped him to slide between the covers. Holmes slipped his arm free of the sling then laid it down on the top of the eiderdown with a small sigh.

"Will you be alright?" asked Watson. Holmes waved him away sleepily.

"Fine, fine; I just need to sleep," he yawned. Watson stood there for a moment, then drew up a chair. Holmes opened his eyes and stared at him drowsily.

"Are you intending to sit there and watch me sleep, doctor?" he inquired acerbically.

"For a little while at least," agreed Watson. "You've got a nasty concussion, and I would be remiss as a doctor, much more a friend, were I to leave you just yet."

"As you wish," sighed Holmes, closing his eyes again as he waved a hand airily in Watson's direction. A few minutes later, he was sound asleep.

Watson sat back and watched in silent vigil.


	3. Rest

Watson was dozing lightly when Holmes began to stir restlessly.

In an instant Watson was awake, leaning forward, one hand reaching for Holmes' good wrist to check his pulse. It was racing rapidly like that of a frightened rabbit. Watson stood up and moved closer. "Holmes?" he whispered.

The moment his fingers closed around the slender wrist, Holmes whimpered and began to writhe, tossing his head back and forth upon the pillow. He kicked and twisted his legs beneath the sheets. "No, no, please, no!" he moaned, eyes still closed.

Watson leaned over him, pressing him back to the pillow with a hand on Holmes' right shoulder. "Holmes,it's alright – you're safe, you're dreaming-"

Holmes arched his back and bucked wildly beneath Watson's hands and began to scream horribly. Shocked, Watson stepped back in alarm, snatching his hands free. Instantly Holmes began to calm, rolling over onto his side and curling up, clutching his cast wrist to his chest, whimpering softly to himself.

Shaken, Watson ran his hands through his hair then leaned forward over Holmes again. As he drew closer, he could just about make out a few words amongst the whimpering. "No... no, no ropes... don't... no, please, don't..."

Watson stared down at the sleeping man who twitched slightly, his eyelids fluttering as he dreamed. Curious, he reached out and took a firmer hold of Holmes' bony wrist again, his fingers wrapped entirely around it.

Holmes shivered and cried out, the fingers of his trapped hand clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he twisted and writhed in the bed again. "No, please, don't do it... don't tie me up again... please, no!" His eyes fluttered open, large and dark with fear as they seemed to stare through Watson. "Let me go!" he begged.

Unnerved, Watson let the hand fall and stepped away from the bed. Holmes covered his face with his hand and curled in upon himself once more, shivering and crying. Watson looked away, overcome with feelings of guilt and remorse. He glanced back at Holmes as he quietened; Holmes was staring at him, eyes red-rimmed and face streaked with tears.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered hoarsely. "Have I not suffered enough, that you must torment me so?"

"I was trying to check your pulse, Holmes," protested Watson. "I didn't mean to-"

Holmes moaned and turned his face into the pillow. "The dreams, the wretched dreams," he whispered. "I had forgotten how morphine makes them so much worse." He glanced back at the doctor, his eyes glittering like dark jewels in the pale face. "Tell me, did I speak in my sleep?"

"You were restless," Watson nodded. "You appeared to be afraid, as though you were reliving your ordeal."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it!" Holmes began to laugh bitterly, then thrust his fist into his mouth to stifle himself as the laughs threatened to become sobs. Watson sank down into the chair, regarding Holmes with sympathetic eyes. Holmes glared at him. "Stop it!" he cried. "How dare you look upon me with pity – I can't stand it, I tell you!" He rolled over to face the wall, pressing his face into the pillows.

"I don't pity you, Holmes," said Watson quietly and patiently. "I am worried for you, yes; I can't bear to see you looking so wretched and in pain. But pity? No, never that. I would not insult you so."

"I just want to sleep," moaned Holmes.

"Sleep then," said Watson gently. Drawing his chair closer, he leaned forward across the bed and gently stroked his hand through Holmes' hair.

Holmes stiffened and half-turned towards Watson. "What are you doing?" he asked, bewildered.

"Hush, relax," smiled Watson, continuing to stroke the soft black hair. Holmes rolled over onto his back, face turned a little away from Watson as the doctor continued to stroke his fingers reassuringly through his hair. Holmes stared into space, a faint look of confusion on his face, unused to such an intimate touch.

After a little while, his eyes fluttered closed, a look of peace schooling the stern features into softness as he relaxed; with a small sigh, he slowly slipped away into sleep. Watson continued to stroke the silky hair for some time after it had become no longer necessary, studying the placid face of his dearest friend in repose, before gently withdrawing his hand. Leaning forward, he bestowed a chaste kiss upon the smooth forehead.

"Sleep peacefully, Holmes," he murmured.

The rest of the night passed slowly. Watson slept in the chair, stirring into wakefulness each time Holmes began to stir and moan, plagued by nightmares or by pain – which was often. Finally towards dawn, Holmes sank into a deeper sleep and became quiet, and Watson was able to finally rest himself. He did not stir when Mrs Hudson brought up the breakfast tray, and was only roused groggily when she laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.

He glanced up at her, then over at Holmes, who lay sleeping peacefully and still. His face was turned slightly towards Watson, his uninjured hand curled beside his head upon the pillow in unconscious abandon. Watson put his finger to his lips, warning Mrs Hudson to be silent, then he carefully checked Holmes' breathing. He then touched two fingers lightly to the pulse point in Holmes' throat, satisfying himself that the detective was deeply asleep, before turning and gesturing for the landlady to precede him from the room. He silently closed the door behind him.

"How is he, doctor?" asked Mrs Hudson quietly. "I heard him cry out during the night."

"He is in much pain and he endured a horrific ordeal, Mrs Hudson," he replied as he made his way over to the couch, eyeing up the steaming pot of tea gratefully. He spotted the small pot of jam lurking between the teapot and the milk jug and smiled fondly. "Oh, bless you!" he exclaimed happily.

"I felt perhaps a little something to cheer you up might be in order," she replied. "I assumed that you got even less sleep than Mr Holmes or myself. Perhaps now he is sleeping more soundly, you might be able to take some rest – in your own bed, maybe, doctor?" she added a trifle pointedly. "A chair is no place for proper rest for a man with your leg, if I may say so."

Watson eyed her ruefully as he sank down onto the couch, stretching his stiff leg out upon the cushions with a faint groan. "Point very much taken, Mrs Hudson; however, Holmes' need of me last night outweighed my personal comfort." He reached for the teapot.

Mrs Hudson sniffed. "Nevertheless, I do hope you don't tax yourself too much, doctor; it will do Mr Holmes no good if you become overtired on his behalf."

He raised his cup of tea and inclined his head towards her. "Just so, Mrs Hudson. I shall seek my rest just as soon as I have laid waste to this wonderful breakfast you have laid before me." He tapped the jam jar meaningfully and smiled, which finally brought an answering smile to the landlady's face.

"Very good sir," she said, drawing the sitting room quietly closed behind her.

Watson sat back and sipped his tea slowly. The hot liquid revived him a little, enabling him to turn his full attention to the toast, crumpets and jam. Finally he sat back with a second cup of tea, replete. He cocked one ear towards the bedroom, but there was no sound from within. At this point, that seemed all to the good; the more deep, restful, natural sleep Holmes could get, the better he would heal – physically, at least.

As for mentally, there the doctor was on shakier grounds. He had dealt with men during wartime who had become traumatised by what they had seen, done and endured; shellshock was a known phenomenon. Indeed, he'd suffered it himself even in the early days of companionship here at Baker Street with Holmes – days when the too-loud banging of a door would have him paling instantly and dropping to the floor for cover before he recalled where he was and that he was safe. Long days when he was unable to stir from his room; long nights devoid of sleep, alone save for his nightmares and horrific memories.

But Holmes seemed plagued by nightmares of a different sort. The injuries he had received were no different than ones he had received before – other cases gone bad, even evenings at the Punchbowl when Holmes had found himself outmatched. Watson had nursed him through all these and more, though never such inflicted with such premeditated cruelty. But it didn't seem to be his physical injuries that had caused the hurt inside; that seemed to be a deeper, more insidious wound.

He was not sure how to proceed. If he left it to Holmes, no doubt it would be swept under the carpet, left to fester, whilst Holmes dealt with it in his own way. Watson could foresee many more sleepless nights of terror if Holmes was left to his own devices.

Yet Watson was very much a physician of the body. Give him a bullet wound, a broken bone, a slash from sword or stab from bayonet – he was in his element; it was what he was trained for. But the healing of a broken psyche? He feared he would be very much out of his depth.

And yet, he would have to try. For Holmes' sake.


	4. Healing

It was the pain in his wrist which woke Holmes. He opened his eyes slowly, a little disorientated at first as he pushed himself awkwardly up into a sitting position. Glancing round his room, he took in the familiar sight of the furnishings and clutter.

He stared down at the white cast upon his wrist and the bandages around his index and middle fingers. For a brief moment he stared at them before recollection returned, and with it the memories.

He shuddered and clutched at his stomach, for a moment fearing he was about to be sick. The room suddenly seemed to be too small, too stifling; he couldn't seem to catch his breath. His feet were tangled in his sheets, and he struggled to kick them free, fighting down a rising tide of unreasoning terror before finally managing to fling aside the covers and eiderdown.

The panic started to subside once he managed to set his bare feet upon the floor. He rose, slowly stripping off the bloodstained shirt and dropping it uncaring upon the floor as he reached for his favourite tatty old dressing gown. It had seen better days, much as had its owner, he mused as he pulled it on. It was shabby and comfortable.

Cradling the injured hand against his chest with his uninjured one, Holmes slowly shuffled his way into the sitting room. He paused in the doorway, staring down at Watson who lay sprawled asleep on the couch next to the remains of what looked like breakfast. Holmes padded forward on silent feet and stared down at the sleeping doctor with a wistful, fond look.

Asleep, the lines of care that made Watson seem older than his years were smoothed away; he looked almost boyish. Holmes noted with a small smile that there were traces of jam on the end of Watson's moustache, with a couple more blobs adorning the front of his slightly rumpled shirt. One hand rested on the broad chest which rose and fell steadily with the deep, slow breaths of one fast asleep; the other hand trailed over the edge of the couch, fingers half-curled towards the floor. Watson's bad leg was stretched out stiffly on the couch, the other leg bent slightly with the foot resting on the floor.

Holmes made his way over to his chair and sank down into it, eyes not leaving the relaxed face of the sleeping doctor. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it slowly one-handed, then tucked the stem into his mouth as he lit a taper from the fire then set it to the bowl of his pipe. He sat back, puffing slowly, thoughts drifting with the smoke.

After a while Watson stirred, sighing faintly as his brow furrowed into a faint frown.

"You should still be in bed," he said with a faint tone of irritation, not opening his eyes.

"I could say the same of you," replied Holmes.

"How long have you been sitting there watching me?"

"You've got jam on your shirt," replied Holmes obliquely.

Watson opened his eyes and sat up, reaching for his handkerchief. "Have I? Oh damn," he muttered, dabbing at the errant blobs of red.

"It's on your moustache too," observed Holmes, pointing with the stem of his pipe.

Watson wiped it off with the handkerchief then eyed Holmes sternly. "You didn't answer my question," he prodded.

"No, I didn't," replied Holmes with one of his maddening, boyish smiles.

Watson rolled his eyes and gave up. "We ought to get you back to bed, old boy," he said briskly. "You had a restless night and I'd be happier knowing you were resting. Or -" he gave Holmes a measured stare, "I could threaten to tie you down to your bed and make you stay there."

Holmes went very still, his eyes glittering strangely. "Don't even joke about such things," he said quietly, voice almost a monotone. Watson regarded him steadily, then turned and leaned forward.

"Holmes, what's wrong?" he asked carefully, studying the other man's face. "You're afraid."

"Yes," said Holmes unwillingly.

"Why?"

Holmes' gaze dropped to the floor.

"Holmes."

He glanced up, slowly, almost against his will.

"What would you do if..."

"Oh God, John, don't. Please. Just drop it." He dropped his face into his uninjured hand, shuddering.

Watson got up slowly and limped over to Holmes' side, crouching down so he could look up into Holmes' face. Holmes regarded him a little fearfully.

"It's not like you to be afraid of something without good reason, Holmes," he said gently.

Holmes laughed sharply; a harsh, sardonic sound. "That's just it though, isn't it? I am afraid without reason. I was afraid even before they began..." He held up his broken hand. "Do you know how they tortured me, Watson? How they broke me?"

"Holmes, don't-"

"They tied me up, Watson. That was it. That was all it took to break me." He spat the words out bitterly, his face twisting in self-disgust. "They tied me up, and I begged them – _begged_ them, Watson! I begged them to stop!" He looked away, closing his eyes in remembered pain and humiliation.

"This has never happened before, I take it," replied Watson thoughtfully.

"Never," agreed Holmes, shaking his head.

"Then perhaps you can overcome it, with help," replied Watson, getting up and walking over to Holmes' desk in the corner.

"How?" asked Holmes, glancing up, curious in spite of himself as Watson rummaged around on the desk. "What are you looking for?"

"Aha!" said Watson triumphantly. "These!" He lifted up a pair of handcuffs.

Holmes' face drained of all colour and he pushed himself back into the chair, shaking his head wildly in sudden terror. "No. No, no! NO!"

Watson limped slowly back toward Holmes, who stared fixedly at the handcuffs, whimpering _no, no, no, no _over and over. He crouched down in front of Holmes and gently laid the cuffs on Holmes' knee. He shrank back as though they were some venomous serpent, his gaze darting from the cuffs to Watson and then back again.

"What are you trying to do to me?" he asked shrilly. "Oh God, get them away from me, _please!_"

"Holmes, it's all right. They can't hurt you. Just look at them. That's all, just look at them."

Holmes stared at him incredulously. "Just... look at them? Watson, what-"

"Just look at them, Holmes. That's all I ask." He laid his hand over Holmes' uninjured one, and Holmes gave a start, jerking at the touch. Watson stroked the hand gently in reassurance. "Holmes. Do you trust me?"

Holmes' gaze upon John was steady as he nodded slowly. "With my life," he whispered.

"Do you truly believe I would do anything to harm you?"

He shook his head, not tearing his eyes away from Watson's clear blue gaze.

"Then trust me."

Holmes swallowed convulsively, then let his gaze fall to the cuffs. He could not repress a shiver of revulsion as he stared at them. "Do I... do I have to, to touch them?" he stammered.

"Do you think you can?"

Holmes bit his lip, then slowly stretched his fingers out towards them, a cold sweat breaking out upon his brow as he confronted his fears. Closing his eyes, he laid his hand upon the cuffs and shuddered before snatching his hand away. Watson laid his hand on Holmes' shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

"How far do you feel you can go?" asked Watson gently. Holmes opened his eyes and turned his anguished gaze upon Watson.

"What do you mean?"

Watson held out his wrists. "Do you think you could cuff me?"

Holmes shrank back. "Why would you ask me to do such a thing?" he hissed.

"To show you that you have nothing to fear," replied Watson gently.

"But... _why?_"

"Because I trust you."

Holmes steeled himself and picked up the cuffs. Watson held out his wrists again. Holmes slowly fitted one cuff around the left wrist, his hand trembling as he fumbled to close it around the warm brown wrist; the cuffs clinked and he flinched at the sound as the catch clicked shut. Watson kept his eyes on Holmes, smiling reassuringly. "I'm OK, Holmes. You're doing fine. That's it, now the other hand..." He slipped his right hand into the cuff as Holmes held it in trembling fingers, and he kept his blue gaze steady as the second cuff clicked shut.

"Holmes?"

"This is wrong, wrong, I can't do this," murmured Holmes brokenly, rubbing his hand over his face. Watson shifted his weight slightly as the wound in his thigh cramped warningly. He rested his cuffed arms on Holmes' knees.

"Holmes, look at me. See? I'm fine."

Holmes glanced up slowly, unwillingly. Watson smiled back, then reached down awkwardly to pull the key out of his pocket. He dropped it into Holmes' hand. "I told you I trusted you. Now, you have the key. It's up to you how long I stay cuffed. You choose when to release me."

He sat back on his heels, wrists resting on Holmes' knees again, and stared up into the wide, dark eyes. "Take your time," he added, winking at his friend.

Holmes blinked, startled.

Watson grinned, held up his cuffed wrists, and wiggled his fingers at Holmes. Holmes pushed his hands down, then fumbled one-handed with the key until Watson's hands were free again.

"See, I told you I'd be fine," remarked Watson easily. He tossed the cuffs into Holmes' hands again; Holmes caught them with his uninjured hand without thinking then dropped them hurriedly. Watson pretended not to notice as he turned his back on Holmes and knelt again, crossing his wrists behind his back again.

"Watson, no – not like that," said Holmes, his voice uncertain. Watson craned his head back over his shoulder to look at Holmes. He raised an eyebrow and wiggled his fingers at Holmes again. "Watson!" cried Holmes, exasperated.

Watson glanced away, humming quietly to himself. After a moment he heard a quiet clinking as Holmes leaned forward, and then there was the cold touch of metal at his wrists as Holmes cuffed him again with a shaking hand. Watson twisted his wrists experimentally in the cuffs, testing their tightness; instantly Holmes was leaning forwards, his slender hand touching Watson's shoulder then smoothing down the length of his arm as Holmes pressed himself against Watson's back. "Did I hurt you?" he breathed anxiously. Watson shook his head.

"I'm fine," he replied gently. "See? It doesn't hurt. They're not even particularly tight." He tuned his face towards Holmes and found their lips were a mere breath apart.

His heart began to beat faster and he felt his breath hitch in his chest as he stared at Holmes' lips; they were a pale pink, curving sensuously into a thin cupid's-bow, slightly parted. Holmes' breath was warm and sweet upon his face and he breathed it in as Holmes exhaled in relief.

"Watson?" asked Holmes hesitantly. "Your pupils are dilated and I can feel your heart racing. Are you-"

"I'm fine, Holmes," breathed Watson, his skin tingling from Holmes' nearness.

"You appear to be somewhat excited," Holmes observed.

_Oh God I want to kiss you so badly._ "I'm perfectly all right."

"Do you want me to let you go?"

_No._ "If you like."

"I'm going to unlock the cuffs now," said Holmes hurriedly as he sat back and began to fumble with the key again.

Watson's groan as he leaned forward and began to rub his leg had nothing to do with the cramp.


	5. Restraint

Watson didn't push the point any further that day; he felt it was best to let the matter lie for a little while before proceeding further. Holmes was exhausted, and Watson felt he'd stretched him far enough already.

Besides, he hadn't anticipated his own response to the situation, and needed a little time to think that part of it over by himself whilst he considered the next step.

He left the handcuffs on the arm of his chair opposite Holmes however; and though he made no further reference to them over the next couple of days, he was aware of Holmes' brooding gaze as the detective sat in his chair and considered them when he thought Watson wasn't looking.

On the third morning, Holmes came out to breakfast to find Watson lying on his stomach on the couch, topless and barefoot, wearing only his trousers and with his hands handcuffed behind his back. He had also tied his feet together at the ankle with one of Holmes' cravats. As Holmes entered, he uttered a muffled gasp.

"Watson, what on earth are you doing?" he exclaimed, slowly walking around the couch.

"Ah, Holmes! I was beginning to wonder if you would lie a-bed all day," remarked Watson in a cheerful tone of voice as he craned his neck to peer back over his shoulder at Holmes. "I appear to have gotten myself stuck, old boy. I don't suppose you would care to let me loose would you? I think I tied the knot a bit tight." He bent his knees and wiggled his toes.

It is hard to imagine toes, of all things, wiggling suggestively; but somehow Watson managed it.

Holmes approached him warily, eyeing up the knot. "Watson, is that-"

"Your cravat? Yes, it is. Be a dear and loosen it, would you? Only be careful; my feet are frightfully ticklish."

Holmes reached his hand out hesitantly towards Watson's feet. He plucked at the knot, then moved closer so he could brace Watson's feet against his chest whilst he worked at it one-handed, hampered as he was by his other hand in a cast. As he bent over the task, his unruly black hair fell in his eyes; without thinking about it, he blew it out of his way. His breath ghosted over the sensitive sole of Watson's foot, which flexed as the doctor jerked and giggled.

"Watson, I cannot untie you if you do not keep still!" he exclaimed, his voice slightly shaky despite his exasperation; his fingers were trembling as he tried to worry the knot free.

"Sorry, old boy; your breath tickled me," Watson apologised.

"It would serve you right if I _did_ tickle you anyhow," retorted Holmes. "Have you any idea how it made me feel to walk in here and see you trussed up like this, after what I've been through? I swear, I thought..." He shook his head and wrestled with the knot. "Well, never mind what I thought," he finished with a mutter as finally the cravat came loose.

"I do apologise," replied Watson contritely. "You'll find the key to the handcuffs in the jam."

"In the...!" Holmes stared at Watson with surprise. "Watson, have you completely lost your mind? What on earth possessed you to do that?"

Watson shrugged. "It amused me."

"It would serve you right if I left you like that whilst I partake of breakfast," snapped Holmes, sitting down in his chair and reaching for the teapot. "In fact, maybe I shall."

Watson raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you think you can handle watching me lying here, bound and helpless, whilst you stuff your face?" He smiled and wiggled his fingers in illustration of the point.

Holmes pointed a wavering finger at Watson. "Do not try my patience! Just what are you trying to achieve here?"

Watson shrugged. "Just save me a piece of toast, will you?"

Watson rolled over onto his back then swung his long legs down to the floor and sat up, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the strain of having his hands cuffed behind his back. He watched Holmes as he awkwardly managed to open the jar of jam and then, with an exasperated sigh, fished out the key with the jam spoon.

"What a mess, he muttered distastefully, setting the spoon down then picking up the key, his fingers smeared in viscous, sticky strawberry jam.

"A very tasty mess," remarked Watson, licking his lips with a smile. Holmes eyed him suspiciously, then held out the key.

Slowly,Watson wrapped his tongue around the small metal object, sucking the jam off the key and the tips of Holmes' delicate slender fingers before taking key and fingers into his mouth, tongue working and probing to remove every last trace of the sweet substance as they explored Holmes' fingers gently and moistly.

Watson's bright blue gaze did not waver from Holmes' face the entire time, his expression intense and a little unnerving. Holmes found he could not draw his gaze away, his own eyes widening slightly as a look of uncertainty crossed his features. He found he was leaning forward, his breath catching in his throat, unable to pull away.

Finally Watson's mouth released the key and Holmes' fingers, and he sat back, a faint look of satisfaction on his face as he licked a stray trace of jam from his lips. Holmes found himself fascinated by the movement, unconsciously licking his own lips.

"How do you feel, seeing me bound like this?" asked Watson softly, tilting his head to one side.

Holmes blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. Then he looked away, a slow blush rising to his cheeks.

"I don't want to play this game, John," he said quietly.

"It's not a game, Holmes," replied Watson. "I'm trying to help you."

"Then it's not working," replied Holmes. "I feel... I feel... I don't know what I feel," he admitted. "I see you bound like that, and it's not the same; there's something... different about it. I don't like it."

"Do you want to release me?" asked Watson gently. Holmes nodded his head, still not looking at Watson, who rose to his feet and skirted the table to kneel at Holmes' feet with his back to the man, his head bowed slightly. With trembling fingers, Holmes unlocked the cuffs, then leaned forward, his hand upon Watson's bare shoulder.

"It's a dangerous game you are playing, John," he breathed in Watson's ear. Then he got up and fled back to his bedroom.

John rolled his head backwards and sank back to rest his head and shoulders upon the still-warm seat of Holmes' chair with a low groan. After a while he sat up and grabbed a piece of toast. Smearing it liberally with jam, he crammed it into his mouth, uncaring of the jam which smeared onto his cheek and dripped onto his bare chest.

Holmes did not come out of his room for the rest of that day; the following morning, he did not come out for breakfast. Watson finally knocked on Holmes' door when he failed to appear for lunch either. A muffled grunt answered him; in lieu of anything more affirmative, Watson pushed open the door and walked in.

Holmes was curled up in a ball beneath his eiderdown with his eyes closed, although Watson knew he was only feigning sleep.

"Not hungry, old cock?" remarked Watson as he strolled in and sat himself down on the edge of Holmes' bed. One eye opened and peered up at him suspiciously.

"Not wearing handcuffs, Mother Hen? Or have you tired of that game finally?"

"It's not as much fun playing on my own," replied Watson. "It's a lot harder to get the key out of the jam, for a start."

Holmes snorted derisively. "So I can imagine," he said acerbically.

"No, I thought we'd try something new," replied Watson. He dropped the handcuffs onto the bed, along with a couple of belts, cravats and a handkerchief.

Holmes sat up, staring down at the items. "No." His voice was flat and cold.

"Holmes, wait. Hear me out," replied Watson.

"What is there to hear? Those things are not coming near me. Get them out of here, and take yourself with them." There was an undertone of fear and just a touch of anger in that flat voice.

"They're not for you, Holmes," answered Watson. "No-one is going to tie you up, Holmes."

"Then why bring them in here?"

In answer, Watson rose to his feet and reached for the chair. He turned it and sat down so he was facing Holmes.

"I want you to do to me what they did to you," he said calmly.

"You're out of your mind!" cried Holmes. "You don't know what you're asking of me – I _can't_ do that to you!"

"Holmes, I know you won't hurt me. There is nothing to be afraid of. You already know you can cuff me then release me without hurting me. How is this different?"

Holmes slid his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand through his messy hair, distressed and unnerved.

"Holmes. I trust you. Have faith in me too."

Holmes' eyes dropped to the floor; for a long time, he did not move. Then slowly he reached for the handcuffs. "We can stop at any time?" he whispered.

"The moment you want to," agreed Watson.

Holmes stared at the cuffs, considering. Then he nodded slightly, and rose to circle round behind Watson. Watson put his arms behind the chair and crossed his wrists, holding them still as Holmes cuffed him. Then Holmes stepped back and watched him.

Watson twisted his wrists in the cuffs as before, testing the feel of them.

"Are you... comfortable?" asked Holmes hesitantly. Watson nodded. Holmes breathed a small sigh, then reached for one of the belts. He pulled it tight around Watson's chest, buckling it behind the chair back. Watson tensed his biceps against the leather; it was constricting, but he could still breathe easily. He nodded reassurance to Holmes that he was fine, and smiled at him.

His face still grave, Holmes looped the second belt around Watson's waist, drawing it tight over his arms and buckling it behind his back.

"Is that too tight?" asked Holmes hesitantly. Watson shook his head.

"It's tight, but I can still breathe fine," he replied. Holmes shook his head uneasily, but left the buckles be and circled back around to sit on the edge of the bed.

"We can stop any time you want to," reminded Watson. Holmes nodded understanding,his expression still troubled.

Watson spread his legs and set his feet by the front legs of the chair. "They bound your ankles, didn't they?" he said quietly. Holmes closed his eyes and nodded, shuddering briefly.

"I tried to fight them off, but there were too many," he replied, voice faint. "The ropes hurt, though not as much as when they broke my fingers."

"No ropes here," said Watson soothingly. "Only silk cravats. They won't hurt at all."

"You said we could stop any time I needed to," breathed Holmes.

"It's all right, Holmes," said Watson soothingly. "We can stop right now if you want."

Holmes held his hand up for silence, then clamped his hand over his mouth as he turned slightly green. He gagged a little, and fought to control his breathing for a few minutes. Watson waited patiently as Holmes pulled himself back together with an effort of will, then reached for a cravat. Falling heavily to his knees, he began to wrap it around Watson's ankle then pulled it tight, knotting it awkwardly. Then he bound Watson's other ankle to the other chair leg the same way. Then he slumped on the floor, resting his arms on Watson's thighs as he leaned back into Watson's lap, closing his eyes. He was shivering all over, his face white.

"Holmes?" called Watson softly. Holmes shook his head, unable to speak for the moment. Watson waited a moment, then called Holmes' name again. Holmes turned, burying his face against his shoulder, his shoulders shuddering as he sobbed almost soundlessly.

Watson stared down at him, helpless and unable to do anything but gently breathe Holmes' name over and over in a soothing litany. He flexed his arms and wrists against the cuffs and leather, unable to free himself even though he desperately wanted to reach down and enfold Holmes in his arms, cradle him close, tell him everything was going to be fine and that he was safe. All he had was his voice.

After a while, the sobbing ceased, and Holmes rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm fine," he murmured, though the quavering of his voice belied his words.

"We can stop now if you need to," said Watson. Holmes shook his head slowly.

"No. You were right. I need to see this through," he replied as he pulled himself back up to his feet. He picked up the handkerchief then turned to Watson. His eyes flickered from Watson's mouth to his gentle blue eyes which widened slightly.

"Are you sure that _you_ want to go through with this?" asked Holmes, gesturing with the handkerchief.

"Whatever it takes," replied Watson. He opened his mouth as Holmes wadded up the cloth, and then his mouth was full of the taste of freshly-laundered cotton and he was silenced. Holmes tied the handkerchief firmly in place with the last cravat, gagging him.

Watson felt a touch of fear rising in his chest as his heart began to beat faster; if he had felt helpless before, that was nothing compared to what he felt now. He began to understand a little of how Holmes' fear had overwhelmed him; even though he knew he was perfectly safe and that no harm would come to him at Holmes' hands, he could still feel panic beginning to pull at him as he began to breath a little faster, fighting a little to draw in enough air through his nostrils. How much worse, then, must it have been for Holmes – bound, gagged, in pain, with no surety of release or rescue?

Holmes was still standing behind him, and he wondered what he was doing as he fought to control his own instinctive fear. He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate, his breathing harsh and ragged in his own ears. What was Holmes up to? He twisted his head around awkwardly to stare over his shoulder.

Holmes was crouched in the corner of the room, hunched against the wall, his broken wrist cradled against his chest as he silently mouthed _no, no, oh please no_ over and over to himself.


	6. Recovery

The sight of Holmes retreating into near-catatonia was enough to almost instantly shock Watson out of his own rising panic. Closing his eyes, he worked to slow his breathing and racing heart by an act of will, deliberately going still instead of straining at his bonds. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at Holmes, trying to make eye contact with him.

Holmes was huddled in a small ball, his face buried against his knees as he trembled, eyes tightly closed.

Watson shook his head and tried to think. He was helpless; moreso than before when at least he could try to talk Holmes down from hysteria. Now he didn't even have his voice. Straining hard, he forced his strength against the leather belts but there just wasn't enough slack to get leverage. He pushed at the handkerchief in his mouth with his tongue, trying to push it out past the cravat but there was too much fabric and the cravat was tied tightly; the silk rubbed and chafed uncomfortably against the corners of his mouth. Each time he inhaled he nearly choked on the sodden cotton. He concentrated on breathing through his nose, trying to keep his breathes slow and even. If he gave in to his panic now, he wouldn't be helping either of them.

Watson thought fast. He began to rock himself from side to side, causing the chair to shift; slowly he started to bump it around so he could face Holmes, who lifted his head slightly at the sound.

Watson bucked against the leather straps restraining him, trying to shift the chair forward; it rocked and then suddenly tipped on its side. He fell heavily to the floor; his grunt was muffled by the gag. Holmes jumped, his head jerking up in startlement. Watson stared up at Holmes, making an impatient sound.

"W-Watson?" whispered Holmes. Watson nodded and made the sound again.

"Are you – are you alright?" Watson rolled his eyes and nodded, then tugged at his bindings, making an inquisitive sound.

"Can I take your gag off?" pleaded Holmes. Watson nodded enthusiastically with an affirmative-sounding noise. Holmes crawled over and reached behind Watson's head, untying the cravat and tugging the wet handkerchief out of his mouth. Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness that thing's out of my mouth," he said thankfully. Holmes drew Watson's head into his lap and hugged him, shaking still.

"I'm sorry," Holmes whispered.

"For what?" asked Watson, not entirely comfortable at that angle but unwilling to pull away, his cheek resting on Holmes' thigh.

"I'm afraid I fell to pieces there. I was rather worse than useless," Holmes murmured.

"I don't think I was doing much better myself," remarked Watson carefully. His bad leg was beginning to cramp painfully due to being held in the same position too long, and all his weight was pressing on his left bicep and elbow; his wrists were aching where he had strained against the cuffs, and the leather belts were chafing his bare skin.

"Let me untie you," said Holmes.

"Yes, please," replied Watson.

With some effort, Holmes was able to push Watson back upright again, and then he set about untying him. Watson groaned with relief when the cuffs finally came off and he leaned forward, letting his head hang between his knees whilst he massaged his wrists. Holmes rose to his knees and gently cupped Watson's cheek with his good hand, staring up into Watson's eyes anxiously.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered. "I couldn't bear it if I hurt you, John."

Watson shook his head tiredly. "Only perhaps some bruising, and that was my own fault," he sighed.

Holmes looked so wretchedly miserable that Watson could not abide it. Without thinking, he reached down and gathered Holmes into his arms as he had yearned to earlier, cradling him in his strong, sure embrace against his broad, bare chest. Holmes stiffened with shock and jerked as though to resist, but then went still as Watson simply continued to hold him without pressure or constraint.

"Was this part of your plan to help me?" Holmes finally managed to ask.

"Not particularly," replied Watson quietly.

They both jumped guiltily as Mrs Hudson tapped on the door then entered the sitting room. "Hello?" she called cautiously. "Dr Watson? Is everything alright?"

Holmes slid off Watson's lap and dove under the covers on his bed until all Watson could see was a mop of tousled black hair peeking above the eiderdown. Watson stood up and limped into the sitting room, favouring his bad leg. "Quite all right, Mrs Hudson," he replied. "I was trying to fetch a box of papers down for Holmes from the top of his wardrobe and the chair slipped is all."

"Dr Watson, you are shirtless," observed Mrs Hudson disapprovingly.

"It was very dusty on top of the wardrobe," he replied.

She sniffed with dissatisfaction. "I trust nothing was broken?"

"Only my dignity, madam," he replied with a boyish smile.

Shaking her head, she gathered up the breakfast tray. With a last frowning look at Watson, she stalked out of the room.

"Is Nanny gone?" asked Holmes quietly from the doorway of his room where he stood huddled in the eiderdown.

"For now, yes," replied Watson, still smiling. Holmes shuffled into the room sheepishly and walked up to Watson from behind. Pressing himself against the taller man's back, he laid his head against Watson's shoulder. "Thank you," he said meekly.

"For what?" asked Watson kindly.

"For bringing me back," replied Holmes quietly. Watson turned around and slipped his arms around the smaller man's shoulders, drawing him close and resting his chin on the top of Holmes' head. This time, Holmes did not stiffen or try to pull away, instead snuggling in closer, turning his face a little to inhale the warm, reassuring smell of Watson.

"My pleasure, old boy," the doctor smiled.

They did not speak further of it, instead allowing matters to settle into a quiet _status quo_. After a few weeks, Holmes' wrist and fingers had recovered enough for the cast and splints to come off, and he occupied his time with building up the strength and flexibility in that hand again. It was with great joy that Holmes was able to take up his beloved violin once more. Watson found that the atmosphere in their rooms greatly improved once Holmes was reunited with his music, though he had to urge Holmes to moderate his practising for fear he would injure the wrist again with overuse after so long without activity.

A few days later, Watson came home from a house call to a former patient to find Holmes absorbed in a newspaper article. Shortly afterwards, Holmes excused himself and disappeared out for the afternoon. Mystified, Watson looked over the article, but could not see what Holmes had been so excited by; it appeared to be about some American stage magician named Eric Weiss. He shrugged, sat himself down in his armchair, and engrossed himself in one of his favourite naval novels.

Holmes spent the next three days locked in his room, only coming out at irregular intervals to take a cup of tea or refill his pipe. Watson noted with concern that on each occasion, Holmes was pale and sweating, but Holmes waved away Watson's concerns airily and returned to his room.

A week later, Watson returned home later than expected from another house call to find the sitting room in darkness. He paused on the threshold of the sitting room.

"Holmes?" he called out, slowly removing his hat.

"Watson." There was a peculiar tone to Holmes' voice; it was somehow too flat and controlled. There was a soft clinking sound as he stirred slightly.

"Holmes, what have you done?" said Watson quietly as he hastened over to the gas lamps and lit them. He turned and gasped.

Holmes stood in the centre of the room on the tigerskin rug. He was barefoot and shirtless, his face white. Perspiration beaded his brow, and his eyes were a little too wide, too wild. He was trembling ever so faintly. His wrists and ankles were manacled and loops of chain encircled his arms, chest and thighs.

Watson took a step towards him, and Holmes tried to raise one hand to stop him, the movement halted by his constraints. "No, Watson, stay where you are!" he urged him, the unmistakable tone of hysteria edging into his voice.

"What are you doing, Holmes?" Watson whispered.

"Freeing myself of my fear the only way I could think of," replied Holmes unsteadily. "Please take out your pocket watch, if you would be so kind, and prepare yourself to time me."

Watson wordlessly did as he was bade. Holmes closed his eyes, steeling himself, then opened them again; Watson was struck by the fierce intensity of his gaze.

"If I have not managed to free myself after five minutes have passed, you have my permission to release me. The keys are on the mantelpiece behind you."

Watson glanced over his shoulder then back at Holmes and nodded slowly.

"Very well. Begin," announced Holmes, and then began to struggle furiously.

Five minutes seemed to stretch into eternity as Watson watched, helpless in the face of Holmes' words to do anything other than watch as Holmes twisted and contorted, writhing as the chains clanked and chinked. The veins stood out upon Holmes' bare neck and arms as muscles bunched, contracted, moved; he threw his head back briefly, closing his eyes in fierce concentration as his wrists worked rapidly within their bonds. One shoulder jerked up by Holmes' ear, and suddenly a loop of chain fell free from his arms. He turned, jerked, twisted, then fell to his knees as he bent over, lowering his head as the muscles in his back strained. Sweat dripped from his hair; his breathing was rapid and shallow.

Watson spared a glance at the hands of his pocket watch; three minutes had already passed. His eyes jerked up to Holmes' writhing body; to his surprise, Holmes had managed to free one wrist from its manacle already. The other wrist followed soon after. As the second hand completed its fourth sweeping circuit of the watch face, the chains fell from his chest and legs as his fingers worked upon the ankle manacles. He stood and stepped free of the chains with seconds to spare from the fifth minute.

Watson found he had been holding his breath; as Holmes staggered over to his chair and fell into it heavily, he gasped for air in similar fashion to the exhausted man who sprawled in the armchair, chest heaving as he panted. Watson dropped his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket then reached for the brandy decanter on the sideboard. He splashed a generous amount into a glass then brought it over to Holmes, who lay with his eyes closed, still breathing heavily, his hair soaked with perspiration and plastered to his forehead. Watson set the glass to Holmes' lips and the detective gratefully took the glass from his hands, gulping it down then wincing as the liquid burned in his throat.

After a while his breathing eased and he sat up, running a hand through his wet hair and brushing it away from his face which had more colour to it.

"Well? How do you feel now?" asked Watson.

Holmes looked up triumphantly. "Never better, Watson!" he smiled. "Never better!

* * *

Later, over dinner at Simpson's, Holmes explained to Watson how he had become fascinated by the work in escapology of Eric Weiss, better known as Harry Houdini.

"I took myself off for an afternoon of vaudeville theatre, Watson, where I could observe such an act at closer quarters," he explained, spearing asparagus with his fork and waving it in illustration of his point. "After that it was simply a matter of practising and replicating the feat for myself."

"Which is why you locked yourself away in your room," nodded Watson.

"Indeed. I felt the best way to confront my fear was to face it head on. I reasoned that if I could master the art of escapology, I would have no reason to fear bondage – no matter whose the hands I might fall into; and I dare say not all captors would be as gentle as you, my dear Watson," Holmes replied. He seemed to notice the asparagus on his fork and placed it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"So do you think you've now mastered your fear?" asked Watson, turning his attention to his own food.

"There is only one way to be certain," replied Holmes, poking at his meat with his knife. "I shall require your assistance there, old chap."

"I should be glad to assist," replied Watson. "How may I be of service?"

"When we return, I shall require you to reproduce those conditions in which you found me at the docks," replied Holmes steadily, his eyes on his plate.

"You want me to tie you up?" asked Watson slowly. Holmes nodded.

"And gag me too."

Suddenly Watson found he had lost all appetite.

* * *

"Are you resolved upon this?" asked Watson for the final time as he stood before Holmes, the wrist manacles in his hands. Holmes stared down at them, pale and already sweating, and nodded.

"You must replicate the conditions as closely as possible," he said quietly.

"I'm not going to break your fingers, Holmes," warned Watson. Holmes laughed, mirthlessly.

"Indeed, no. But you must not hold back upon me, Watson," he warned.

Watson breathed out long and slow through his nose. "Very well. Turn around."

Holmes closed his eyes and turned his back to Watson.

Without stopping to let himself consider what he was doing, Watson grasped Holmes' wrist, wrenching it up firmly behind his back as he cuffed it before grabbing the other wrist. Holmes gasped and jerked as the second cuff snapped closed about his wrist; he nearly staggered as Watson span him round then forced him down into the chair. Then he dropped coils of rope about the slender man's chest, pulling them tight and tying him down firmly to the chair, immobilising his arms and chest before he set about binding Holmes' ankles to the chair legs. Then he paused before Holmes.

Holmes sat still, the flaring of his nostrils as he concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and steady the only outward sign of his inward agitation.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" asked Watson quietly as he picked up the leather gag. Holmes blanched slightly, but nodded his head.

"Get it over with," he rasped. "Before I lose my nerve completely."

Watson stepped behind him and lowered the gag over his face. Holmes opened his mouth, and Watson gagged him firmly, fastening the buckle behind Holmes' head.

Holmes let his head drop for a few minutes, breathing heavily through his nose as he fought down the instinctive panic and hysteria that threatened to overwhelm him. He had had to fight down the urge to kick, scream, lash out at Watson instead of submit to the cold iron, the ropes, the leather gag. Now he sat there, bound and helpless -

_No. Not helpless._

This was just the same as the manacles. He had freed himself from them; he could do the same here. Ropes and knots were not so very difficult when compared to iron manacles.

He blanked out the room, the sight, the very scent of Watson in front of him, deliberately emptying his mind. There was no watch to beat this time; only his own fears. Slowly he flexed each wrist in turn, then began to work his wrists, his fingers, his arms. _Twist, flex, turn_, back arching, tensing muscles against rope and steel; ignore the sweat dripping from his body, the burn of the ropes as they bit into his flesh, the struggle to breathe as the ropes across his chest restricted his air flow. _Turn, wrench, flex_, an ankle freed – leverage now to work against the other ropes. Ignore the chafing of cold iron against the wrist – sweat slicking the metal now, pull hand into a narrow arrow, slip – _free!_The second manacle followed soon after, and then he pulled one shoulder up, cramped almost painfully against his neck; ignoring the discomfort he pulled the suddenly-loose ropes down and off his chest then bent down to free his other ankle. Standing up he pulled himself free of the last ropes then reached up to unbuckle the gag; it was only as he pulled the wet leather from his mouth he realised that he was no longer shaking.

He dropped the gag on the floor and wiped the sweat from his brow, then turned to glance at Watson, who gave him an uncertain smile.

Holmes smiled easily back in return, and Watson breathed an audible sigh of relief.

It was over. The fear was gone.

~~~ _FIN_ ~~~


End file.
